Mr. Krueger’s Porch
He lived alone in the house with crooked shutters—the one where the porch sags just so, where the garden grows wild, and the mailbox leans a little, as if listening for a story.
He was the collector of cast-off things: a chair missing a spindle,a clock stuck at three, old cups that never matched but somehow made the lemonade sweeter.
He never said much, not at first, just nodded, or let a smile crease the soft lines of his face while I peppered the afternoon with questions. He taught me patience without a word, how to wait for the answer that matters.
Some days, he’d help in our yard, gentle with the roots, careful with the weeds. I'd bring him iced tea, and he’d bring a pie, slicing gratitude into every bite. He was shy, a bit of a ghost—there, but not quite,a presence in the corner of the eye.
One autumn, I asked about pumpkins,and when he shook his head,we brought him armfuls—orange and bright—carved them with laughter,lined them on his porch,so his house glowed with borrowed joy.
I asked if he’d dress up for Halloween.He asked what he should be. I said, “A ghost.”He looked at me, surprised—“Why a ghost? “Because you’re here, but you’re not here,” I said. He nodded, something gentle in his eyes—“Child, you see me. You really do.”
Years later, I remember him that way: Mr. Krueger, quiet as dusk, sitting on his porch in a sheet—the kindest ghost, watching over the street and Bay, a heart full of old stories, waiting for someone to listen.
I learned from him the quiet art of noticing the invisible, the ache of gentle people, the beauty in a simple thank you, and how sometimes, the loneliest souls shine the brightest when you see them.
-
Author:
Friendship (
Offline) - Published: July 27th, 2025 14:44
- Comment from author about the poem: True story, I painted this for him........Mr. Krueger was our groundskeeper. He lived in the old gray house across the bay. He also worked for our other neighbors; he was basically a yard man, but my dad preferred to call him a groundskeeper. My dad always said a man should never be defined by a job title, but what happens when a job title becomes the man?
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy, Jerry Reynolds, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments7
The image selected to grace this gorgeous memory related to purpose suggests October 31st, as alluded to herein, though it seemed to detract from the warm, affectionate recollection, initially. What a wonderful reminiscence! How sweet. Deliciously rendered with exceptional imagery and a warmly haunting poignancy, how beautifully it lingers in the mind like a spicy fragrance wafting on the mild breeze. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you so much for your kind words. Have a good evening.
You likewise.
Great write, Friendship. Splendid read.
A fun read that at the same time is a deeper dive into the character of people and how they are seen. A lovely wright.
Thank you for your comment, Sorenbarrett, and yes, you're correct. It's how we see people. Yet, when I was younger, I knew a very kind man who acted like a ghost around people and in his performances.
You are welcome
An entertaining and affectionate write about the grounds keeper, but delves in and asks about people character and they perceived by the wider world, very Nicely written, enjoyed the read
Friendship, this is luminous. It lingers like memory...soft, specific, and quietly sacred. Mr. Krueger feels real because he is...we’ve all known a version of him, or maybe been him ourselves. This is how you write a ghost story with soul. 🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
P.S. I came in wondering if you were paying ol' Wes Craven an homage, if you are familiar with him and the Nightmare on Elm Street film franchise. Anyway, as fun as that might have been, this was a better direction for Mr. Krueger indeed. Loved it!
Hello, Friendship,
What a beautiful tribute to a quiet and hardworking fellow in beguiling prose and instances of tender poetic charm. This was lovely to read and as for your artistic skills, the ghost and pumpkins, is art to behold, especially the ghostly sheet, it looks translucent, every crease perfectly depicted. Very well done indeed.
Fond regards,
Tony.
A thoroughly enjoyable read, write from one end through to t'other .. I get the impression your dad was a decent guy who knew a thing or two .. Neville
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.